


Nuances

by Eryn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Red Pants Monday, dye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eryn/pseuds/Eryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when John woke one morning and found the entire content of his underwear drawer missing he couldn't help but wonder just <i>what</i> Sherlock needed 20 pairs of white cotton underpants and 16 white cotton undershirts for</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nuances

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Red Pants Monday contest on tumblr.
> 
> Find me there as [entangledwood](http://entangledwood.tumblr.com/)

After a year of living with Sherlock Holmes, John had reached an admirable level of zen. He no longer asked _when_ , _why_ or _how_ his flatmate had done something. Like Buddha he accepted the seemingly random actions as god given and moved on. They were nothing to get excited about. Everything Sherlock affected could be replaced in the end.  
However, when John woke one morning and found the entire content of his underwear drawer missing he couldn't help but wonder just _what_ Sherlock needed 20 pairs of white cotton underpants and 16 white cotton undershirts for.

His question was answered as soon as he reached the living room, dressing gown sensibly tied close over his nude form, and found clothing line spanning the whole of their kitchen in an intricate web. 19 pairs of formerly white briefs were held in place by clothes pins with the remaining white pair placed smack in the middle. After all a proper scientist always kept a control group.

His pants had apparently fallen victim to some form of colour experiment. All 19 of them were now sporting various shades of red, the deeper the farther from the centre they were placed. The nuances went from barely there pink hues and rose tints over bold blood red and poppy blossom to a deep burgundy and rose hip tea. John wasn't quite sure if he should be appalled or intrigued by what his flatmate had accomplished in the not even 7 hours John had been asleep. 

At the centre of the web sat, of course, one Sherlock Holmes, dressed in only a pair of loose grey cotton pants liberally splattered in red. He seemed completely unconcerned at the humidity and stench of fabric dye. He just sat that and smiled at John like the cat that got the canary while stirring a big pot standing in front of him. John was fairly sure he knew where his undershirts had gone.

"Ah John. Good morning", Sherlock said pleasantly in a voice that made John wonder what else had happened to his clothes overnight and if he would find more surprises if he checked his sock drawer later. Living with Sherlock really was like living with a cat, he thought, you never knew when he'd drag in a dead rat and call it a job well done. Still John kept calm and stepped closer to the tangle of lines and fabric. He’d have to get tea on the way to work today. There was no way he’d make it to the kettle and back without bringing the whole construction down.

"What were you experimenting on this time?", John asked mildly. There was no reason for him to be angry or annoyed. There were worse things Sherlock could do to his pants. He was just a bit confused as to what had brought on this latest experiment. Without hesitation John snatched the closest pair of pants off the line. No need to play twister if he could get a perfectly serviceable pair from the edge. It even had a nice normal shade of red and was, mercifully, mostly dry. The remaining dampness was likely due to the general humidity and would disappear as soon as he went upstairs to get dressed. They also seemed to not have shrunk from whatever else Sherlock might have done to them, which was another point in his flatmate’s favour.

"Speed at which white cotton accepts cloth dye. Shade taken on after different times of dyeing.", Sherlock explained calmly. Unfortunately John didn’t feel calm. His flatmate’s voice was lacking the usual 'obviously' nuance, which meant the experiment held Sherlock’s complete attention. No room for condescending when there was science to do. John feared for the rest of his wardrobe.

John nonetheless went and dismissed his worries as futile. There was no use in arguing or questioning. His pants were already dyed and so were, apparently his undershirts. John firmly pushed the unease to the back of his mind and instead nodded. Then he turned his back to Sherlock and slipped the pants on beneath his dressing gown, grateful for its length. No matter his flatmate’s lack in social awareness, there were some thing that should remain private, even if it was, for once, John getting dressed in the living room.

When John turned back around he could see Sherlock pull one of his undershirts from the pot. The formerly white cotton had taken on a dark red that reminded John of clotted blood. The doctor took it as his cue to leave. Before Sherlock had so much as turned to hang the shirt in its designated place, John had already shaken his head, and headed in the direction of the stairs. If he wanted to get breakfast on the way to work he needed to make haste. Sarah wouldn’t forgive him if he was late yet again.

—————————

John wasn’t surprised that the kitchen was still covered in pants and shirts when he came home. The only surprising thing was, that it was still only shirt and pants and not also socks, cat-fur and whatever else had struck Sherlock’s fancy. That and the fact that Sherlock had actually taken the time to remove the pot and air the room. John wasn’t quite sure if he should be happy or creeped out. After all Sherlock never did anything like that. He couldn’t be bothered to pick up his own laundry, he couldn’t be arsed to make his own tea and he definitely couldn’t be convinced to air a room. Yet today he’d done it. Of course compared to tidying away the dyed clothes, or even going so far as to sweep the kitchen floor to remove the red stains, opening a window and emptying a pot were small feats. But it still was way out of the ordinary.

Sighing wearily John put down his briefcase and hung his jacket before advancing further into the room. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, hands in his usual thinking pose, lips pushed to fingers as he stared straight at John. Maybe the cleaning was a ploy to make him more compliant?

“Come here”, Sherlock instructed before John could say anything. Yes, apparently it was a ploy.

“Hello Sherlock. Yes I had a nice day. Thank you for asking”, John grumbled under his breath. But nonetheless he went to stand in front of Sherlock, only to step away again when the detective’s hands shot out in an attempt to grab his belt.

“What do you think you’re doing?”, John hissed, stepping back further since Sherlock leaned forward for a better reach.

“Opening your pants, John. Isn’t it obvious. Now come back here”, Sherlock ordered, for now seemingly unwilling to rise from the sofa, relying instead on his reach.

“No.”, John said firmly. No matter how many personal boundaries he allowed Sherlock to break regularly, he would not let himself be undressed. Especially not in the middle of their living room.

“Yes. It is vital to the experiment. Come here John”, Sherlock argued, finally getting to his feet and advancing on John, who backed away quickly. Fortunately John knew the layout of the flat well enough to dodge debris and not back himself into a corner or wall. Who knew what Sherlock would do then.

“Why? You have your shades and times. And keep your hands to yourself”, John ordered, voice betraying his nervousness. He’d backed them to the bottom of the stairs and he briefly entertained the idea of turning and bolting for his room, but that left the chance of Sherlock reaching out and catching his clothes. John really didn’t want to crack his skull on the stairs just to satisfy Sherlock’s curiosity. Especially since he had no doubt that Sherlock would undress and examine him first, as long as he wasn’t mortally wounded.

“Yes. But I want to see if the colour has been transferred to your trousers and skin. And I need to reference the shade now to the shade it had in the morning. So stop giving me trouble and take off your pants”, Sherlock said, voice getting steadily louder. The last part was all but shouted and John couldn’t help but blush at the idea of someone overhearing.

“Okay. Sherlock. Step back.”, John ordered, hands held out in a calming gesture before moving to rest on his belt. The motion alone wasn’t enough to sway Sherlock though. He kept close and only retreated after John told him again to step back. With a disgruntled expression Sherlock backed up until there were three feet separating them. “I will take off my trousers now and you can, I don’t know, dissect them to find any last colour particle there is. But you will not do the same to my butt”, John insisted while kicking off his shoes.  
“Don’t be daft John. I won’t dissect your pants. They are not alive. And I will definitely not take a knife to your butt. But it would be invaluable if you allowed me a visual inspection.”, Sherlock bargained, eyes fixed on John’s hands, which were resolutely undoing the belt and pushing down trousers.

“Most definitely not. You will not visually inspect my crotch. And if I catch you sneaking into my bedroom to do it while I sleep, I will… I will”, he argued, first angry, then slower and more exasperated. Threats never worked with Sherlock. Unfortunately John was well aware of that. There just were no effective punishments. Anything uncomfortable he promised was twice as uncomfortable for him or didn’t interest Sherlock. And Sherlock knew that. Knew John would never go through with threats of buying no more food or moving out. No matter the mad man he lived with, John liked life at Baker Street and he ate more in a day than Sherlock did most weeks.  
Sherlock, that ass, seemed to be listening closely now, though his lips were curled up in amusement, daring John to voice a threat. John was sure that somewhere in his mind palace Sherlock kept a file labelled ‘ineffective threats uttered by John H. Watson’. They both knew that every punishment John promised would hurt himself twice over. 

Sighing in defeat John pushed down his pants, stepping out of them and then holding the red garment out to Sherlock. The detective grabbed it and more or less rushed to the kitchen to hang the pants into their place again, and wasn’t that a disgusting thought.

Meanwhile John kicked away shoes, socks, and trousers, ignoring the discomfort and humiliation at standing in his own living room with his pants down. At least, he mused, there was no direct line of sight from outside the flat. Only his obnoxious flatmate as witness.  
“Just…keep it visual”, John said when Sherlock came back and got to his knees in front of John, magnifier already in hand. Sherlock just hmmed as though he’d heard and John made sure to keep his weight evenly distributed. He was sure they’d be here a while.


End file.
